


forever and always

by aglowSycophant



Series: eight adapts to the surface and gets a girlfriend along the way [3]
Category: Splatoon
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Blood, Codependency, Dreams, Eating Disorders, F/F, Insomnia, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Post-Octo Expansion DLC, Prequel, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Female Character, and here we are, but its minor. like only 400/500 words or so, i hc 4 as trans, i was thinking about sanitization goop side effects, its not really an eating disorder but its close enough that i feel i should tag, sorry this is a fucking mess, there is no comfort here its just angst sorry, theres some smut here fyi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-07-24 23:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aglowSycophant/pseuds/aglowSycophant
Summary: You never dream when you sleep.You used to. Or, maybe you did. You don’t know. The past feels hazy, to you. Inaccessible. Your life starts and ends in the moment. Maybe you should be sad. She used to ask you if you had any dreams. Your answer was no. It was always no.“What a shame,” is what she said. “You used to.”You used to. She said you did. She never lies, so it must be true.She’s amazing, you think.You love her, you know.(or, "Tartar's goop changed more than just Agent 3's face, and Agent 4 is along for the ride.")





	1. In which

**Author's Note:**

> takes place 2 weeks after octo expansion, one month and two weeks before wishful thinking

You never dream when you sleep.

You used to. Or, maybe you did. You don’t know. The past feels hazy, to you. Inaccessible. Your life starts and ends in the moment. Maybe you should be sad. She used to ask you if you had any dreams. Your answer was no. It was always no.

“What a shame,” is what she said. “You used to.”

You used to. She said you did. She never lies, so it must be true.

She’s amazing, you think. 

You love her, you know.

She looked sad when you told her that. You don’t know why. She didn’t tell you when you asked why. “It's nothing,” she said instead. But it was something to her, and she is your everything, so it should be something to you too, shouldn’t it?

Ah, but you didn’t press.

Good servants never press.

* * *

When she stops by your apartment, she brings food. When she brings food, that is the only time you eat.

“Did you eat anything earlier?” she used to ask each time. Her expression always soured when you gave her your answer. “Why not?”

If she wanted you to eat, she would tell you. Even when she brings food, you don’t eat. You wait for her to plate it. You wait for her to shove a fork at you. You wait for her to tell you to eat. You don’t do things out-of-turn. Her words are snappish. Good. A master should be forceful.

But that’s not the answer she wants. You know that much.

Instead, you shrug. “I wasn’t hungry,” you say. You make sure you pronounce each syllable. If you speak too fast or too lazily, then she might not understand. You might look sloppy. Only bad servants are sloppy. When she speaks to you, she speaks quickly. She mumbles, sometimes. Her voice varies a lot. Sometimes it’s soft, sometimes it’s forceful. Good. Variety is a good aspect for a person to have.

“You’re never hungry,” she states with a huff. Yes. You ignore the pangs of hunger that wrack your frame. They don’t exist. She said you were never hungry, after all. So you’re not hungry, but you’ll eat. You’ll eat because she wants you to. “How’ve you been feeling recently?”

You’ve been hurting recently. Your arms ache where the cuts were, where the stitches are now. Your abdomen burns with each movement, a dull, fiery kind of pain.

“Good,” you say. It’s the answer she wants. “I have been following the doctor’s instructions. One to two pills, no more than three at a time. Never take more than six a day. It’s better to have with food, otherwise you’ll get nauseous.”

The doctor’s words are burned into your mind. You don’t forget them, not a bit. Good servants don’t forget.

“How’re the cuts?” she asks. There is a mouthful of rice in her mouth, so her words come out distorted. It’s rude to talk with food in your mouth, but she does it anyways. It’s okay if she does it, you reason, because she never does anything wrong. A good master doesn’t make mistakes. “Do they hurt?”

“Only a little,” you reply. They keep you up at night. Everything keeps you up at night. You don’t think you sleep well. You’re never sure. You’re only sure if she is sure. That’s how these things work, after all.

“... Okay,” she says. There’s nothing to reply to there, so you don’t.

You eat your food in silence. Once you finish it, you’re still hungry. You don’t tell her that, though. She didn’t ask.

She leaves, eventually. She always does. You wish she didn’t.

You feel like your stomach: empty, barren, only slightly filled.

You don’t think you like it, either.

* * *

She takes you to the Cuttlefish Cabin.

You don’t think you like the cabin. You don’t think she likes the cabin, either. There’s a reason why you come, though. It’s reports. It’s check-ups. They should be off work right now. Well, they are. Or, you are. She keeps working. You still don’t know why. The Zapfish are safe. She shouldn’t be working.

When you brought that to her attention, she just laughed. It sounded tired, hollowed. It reminded you of half-melted ice being rolled in a plastic cup.

You’re so thirsty, too. You don’t drink. You only drink when she tells you to. You don’t act out of turn. You never bring it up.

You gnaw at your lip as you sit on the couch. The fabric is itchy. The cushions are hard. You don’t think you like this couch. Standing takes too much energy, though. Your legs shake when you do. You can barely support your own weight.

You wonder if she would care if you slept. You’d like to sleep. You’re so tired.

At night, you barely sleep. The streets are too noisy. Your breathing is too loud. It’s too dark in your room, so you open the blinds. It’s too bright, then, so you close them. You’ve tried to find a middle ground, but that’s too dark and too bright. You give up after that.

When she leaves, she always tells you the same thing: “Remember to take it easy, and try to get some rest.”

You’d like that, honestly. You know you would.

So you try. Not just for her, but for you, too, in a careless act of selfishness. You toss and turn all night and never get anywhere. If you stay up for too long, your body stops. That’s the only way you know how to describe it. It stops.

When it stops, you know peace.

You miss peace. You miss sleep. The pills the doctor prescribed you for your pain make you drowsy too, but you only take them when your cuts hurt. If she ever found out you took them to sleep, she’d be mad.

You don’t want that.

You sigh quietly and shift on the couch. You’re not wearing your agent wear. The vest is shredded from the blender, after all. If it tore your stomach and arms apart, then there’s no reason for your clothes to have survived. You’re wearing one of her shirts instead. You’ve been wearing it for five days straight now. It used to smell like her, but it doesn’t anymore. You like to pretend it does, though.

You grab a fistful of it and breathe it. Your reward is the overwhelming odor of your stench. You haven’t showered in five days, either.

The others have been treating you differently lately. You want to understand. You don’t. You can’t. She won’t allow it.

She prohibits you, whether she knows it or not. She is your walking rulebook. She is your world. You don’t think it was always this way. If it was, you can’t remember. Details are hazy. Everything feels hazy. You think you are drowning, drowning in air, soupy and thick and choking, like the sea forced mouthful after mouthful down your throat. It postpones the end, though. You wish it didn’t. You wish it’d kill you already.

Mm.

Yes, a break would be nice.

* * *

She doesn’t come on Tuesdays or Thursdays. She has practice then, after all. Her life is busy. Important. Yours isn’t, and that’s okay. It’s okay if your life is dull. If it’s quiet. You hurt too much right now.

You’re supposed to be healing. You don’t think you are. You feel stuck. You feel like the world is just holding you still, sticky hands wrapped around your throat and your legs and your everything. You want to move forward. You want to get better. You aren’t.

You’re on the phone with your mother. Conversation is hard. You don’t want to disappoint her, though.

You lie to her. You don’t feel bad about lying to her. And you don’t feel bad about lying to yourself to keep up the other lies.

“How’s Sarah doing?” she asks. Her voice is sweet. Her voice is gentle.

“She’s okay,” you reply. Your voice is rough. It is grainy. It is edges, it is a symphony of knives striking glass, it is hoarse. Most of all, it is drained.

Sarah.

You miss her.

You don’t know if Sarah is the name she wants you to call her by. Your mother calls her Sarah. When you see glimpses of her on your Inkstagram feed, her teammates call her Sarah. You should call her Sarah, then, too.

But Marie calls her Four. Callie calls her Four. The Captain calls her Agent 4. The new girl calls her Four. Marina and Pearl, whenever they’re at the Cabin, they call her Four. So you should call her Four, then?

Ah.

Rules are confusing.

Next time she comes and, if she gives you permission, you’ll ask.

For now, she is just her.

“How have you been doing?” your mother asks. The words come out slow. They remind you of molasses, sweet and dripping slowly.

You’re so hungry.

“I’m okay,” you say. Okay is subjective. Okay is never a lie. Your okay can be someone’s bad. Your bad can be someone’s okay. To someone in the world, how you feel right now is okay.

“... Okay,” is what she settles on after a small bout of silence. “Well, I’ve... Got to go. I’m going out with Cindy tomorrow - you remember Cindy right?” (You don’t, but you hum as if you do.) “Yes! She’s been asking about you. Okay, well, I’d like to see how you’re doing. Are you still sick?”

‘Yes,’ is the right answer. In a way, you’re still sick. You’ve always been sick. At least, from what you can remember.

“No,” you reply, forcing your voice to match hers in tone. “I’m okay. I’m starting work again on Sunday.”

“Alright. As... As long as you’re good.” There are notes of worry in her tone. You ignore them. “Send me a picture of yourself? Oh, what’s it called..? A selfie?” You hum again. She takes it as a yes. “Send me one, okay? I’d love to see you!”

“Okay.” Your mouth is dry. The words hurt your throat. You wish you didn’t have to speak. “Bye, Mom.”

“Talk to you soon, Summer.”

The line goes dead.

You flick on a light and wince. You turn it off.

Good. The dark is good.

You find the part of your apartment that’s the brightest and you try and angle yourself in a way that looks presentable.

You look at the picture after you take it.

Your frame is lanky. Too lanky. You’ve lost weight. Your muscles aren’t nearly as defined. The bandages wrapped around your wounds are old, stained with dark blue blood. You should change them. You want to change them. You’re tired. It’s too much work.

It’s okay, you reason as you send the picture to your mother, she’ll fix it.

You turn your phone off after that. The light hurts your eyes. You don’t bother plugging it in, either. It’s at eighteen percent. In the morning, it will be dead.

In the morning, you hope you are too.

* * *

She doesn’t stop by on Tuesday. That’s normal. She doesn’t stop by on Wednesday. “Car accident,” she said over text. “I’m okay, but the traffic was insane. Do you need me to come over?” “No,” was your reply. You didn’t want to say anything longer. You didn’t want to waste her time.

It’s Thursday. She doesn’t stop by on Thursdays.

You’re hungry.

She wouldn’t mind if you ate, would she? You hope she doesn’t. You don’t want her to. But you’re also not sure. If she told you to take care, then you would be okay. Eating falls under take care. Showering falls under take care. You don’t like the way you reek, but you do. As a bonus, it keeps the water bill down. Something like that.

You could ask. You should ask. You hope she doesn’t mind.

With shaky steps, you walk over to the fridge. It smells. You open the door. The lights are bright. The air is cool. The smell is so much worse.

It’s of rot. All the food you had left there before you went to Kamabo is still there. That was a month ago. A month and two weeks ago. A month, two weeks, and three days ago.

She would be mad if you ate expired food, wouldn’t she? That won’t do. You close the door. Yes, it’s best to leave that there. You’ll clean it out another day. When you feel better.

Ha.

That’s funny, isn’t it.

But no matter. You need food. You need to eat. If you don’t eat, you will die. If you die, you will disappoint her. You can’t have that.

You have some money left in your account. Not a lot, but some. Enough to buy a cup ramen. Enough to buy two. More than enough for that, but you don’t want to go overboard.

Yes. That will do.

There is a convenience store around the block. It’s within walking distance. It’s open twenty-four hours.

You don’t want to walk. You want to just be there. No, you want to just be here but with two cups of instant ramen. You’d have something to take your pills with. That would be good, too. Your cuts are hurting more than ever. They could be infected. It’s probably from the old bandages. You hope they’re not infected. They probably are. You can deal with them when you’re not hungry. When you’re rested.

Yes. You push yourself off the ground and ignore the burn your cuts give you. The burn that shoots through your whole body. You want to collapse, but the thought of warm instant ramen fuels you.

Pathetic, isn’t it? You feel like some animal, chasing food that’s forever out-of-reach.

(At least the animal can properly serve, you think bitterly as you stumble down the stairs. What can you do?)

(The answer, as always, is nothing.)

* * *

You come back at 1:13 in the morning. In total, the walk took you an hour. While you were at the store, you bought four cups of instant ramen and a pack of cigarettes. You don’t smoke. You throw them out once you leave without even opening them.

Making the ramen doesn’t take long. Eating it takes even less. You eat all four cups. You scrape at the insides of the cups until styrofoam comes back on your spoon. You scrounge around in your fridge for anything that might have not expired.

Once those options run dry, you call her.

“Summer?” she answers after the second ring. She sounds groggy. You woke her up. “Shit, are you okay?”

You start spewing apologies until you choke on your sobs. You apologize more after that, even though they come out incoherent and messy and disgusting.

“Hey, hey,” she comforts, “What’s wrong? Summer, Summer- Calm down, hey...”

You force yourself to calm. Crying doesn’t make your headache any better.

“I ate,” you mumble miserably. She pauses, as if she’s expecting more. “... Sorry.”

“You... Ate?” she repeats. You nod. She can’t see it. “I don’t see the problem.”

“I don’t eat on Thursdays,” you explain quietly. The phone is in your right hand. You grab an empty cup with your left. “You don’t want me to, right?”

“Summer...” She sounds disappointed. You feel like a disappointment. You wish you were dead. You’re so close to it now, after all. In this analogy, you’re one step away. In real life, you’re one well-timed jump out your window. “Summer, of course I want you to eat. Is... Is that why you haven’t been eating?”

“Yes,” you admit. She sighs, a judgmental miasma of loathing. It chokes you. It chokes you, fills your lungs, burns them. You should be dead. You should be dead. You’re a disappointment. Disappointments that can’t serve should be dead. “So-”

“Don’t apologize.” Her voice is steady, or it’s trying not to be. No, her voice is angry, and she’s trying to keep it steady. “From now on, if you want to eat... Eat. I didn’t think you needed my permission. If you need to do anything to stay alive, just... Do it. That includes showering.”

Helplessly, you nod against the receiver.

“Okay.”

She sighs again. “I’ll... I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Be... Be careful, Summer.”

She hangs up.

_Summer._

You roll the word around your tongue. It feels foreign. Alien. It feels like your blue eye, rolling about its socket.

You push yourself off the ground. You set your phone on the counter and look inside the cup.

The cup is empty, the ramen gone.

You feel empty when she is gone.

Funny, right?

* * *

“You’re not okay, are you, Summer?” she asks one evening. Her mantle is a mangled mess of blues and whites. It’s death on display. You think you should feel scared, so you do. You don’t know what you did to upset her. You never know. You only do what she tells you. If she knows, then you know. If she doesn’t, then neither do you.

You search her face for the right answer. You search her mantle for clues. You don’t know if you’re okay or not. You only know that you are you. Is there an answer she wants? You want to make her happy. If she is happy, you are happy. That is what a good servant does, after all.

There is an answer she expects, you deduce, and then there is one she believes to be the excuse.

“No,” you say. Her face breaks. You feel yourself break. “I don’t think I am.”

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks. Tears run down her face. That’s not good. A servant should never make their master cry. You’re worthless, you think. You don’t deserve to live, you know. You’ve failed her, is the ultimate truth. The word echoes in your head, rattling in your chest. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Fai

“I’m sorry,” you state. You think you’re sorry. You think you should be sorry. You think you feel sorry. You think she wants you to feel sorry. You think you don’t know what you think. You think you should be dead. You think you should be blended with the other ten-thousand and seven. You think you should rot. You think you would be better dead. “Do you know?”

She stops crying for a moment, one so brief and small that it never happened. Your words were right. It was best to apologize. It’s okay, then. If she stops crying, it’s okay.

But then she starts again. Her sobs are loud. They are ugly. You are ugly. You know you are ugly. You’re disgusting. You’re trash. You’re awful.

Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Fa

“What _happened_ to you?” Her voice is loud and trembling. It reminds you of an avalanche. It reminds you of an object, high-up and waiting to fall. Good. You hope it crushes you. You hope it smashes your guts to bits. You hope you end up a stain on the floor. You hope your stain is washed-out and gone forever. You hope you’re forgotten.

Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. F

The other octoling described the process. You could hear her discussing it in the other room to Marie. Sometimes your hearing feels distant. Sometimes it feels close. You don’t get the luxury of a middle ground.

“Sanitization,” you repeat. “It’s a process in which-”

“I _know_ what happened,” she snaps. Then there’s no need for you to answer, if she knows. You’re confused. Did you answer wrong, then? You wish she wasn’t mad. You don’t want her to be mad. You have worth. You’re sure of it, you think. Do you? Do servants with worth make their masters cry?

Somehow, you doubt it. “But... _Why?_ Tartar, right? That was his name?”

You nod.

“Why are you still..?” She gestures towards you vaguely. You get the gist of it. “He’s gone. You’re still fucked up.”

You don’t know what words she wants, but you know the truth.

“I have you,” you say, voice light. A smile dances on your lips as you take her hand. It’s soft. So soft. So wonderful. She’s wonderful. “I have you, and you are all I ever need.”

You don’t know why she breaks down sobbing again, but she does.

“I love you,” you breathe. It meshes with the sound of her tears, raucously melodic. Again and again you say it, this absolute truthful declaration, till you’re giddy with joy. “I love you, forever and always.”

(She doesn't say it back, and that's okay. A master isn't obligated to love their servants, after all.)


	2. In which you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up all the nasty shit is in the all italics section! i dont think theres going to be another one of those but ill 100% warn if there is.  
> for italics: blood, masochism. no smut but its suggestive

You lean back against the couch. The living room is dark. The kitchen is not. Light pours in from the kitchen, curling around the entryway. There’s no door, you note. It would be weird if the kitchen had a door. There is a hole there as if there should be, though.

She’s in the kitchen, washing dishes. You offered to wash them, but she insisted on doing it herself. “You’ll aggravate your cuts,” was her reasoning. “Just sit back and let me do it.”

How did you get such a kind master?

... No. She doesn’t like it when you call her that. She wants you to call her your ‘friend.’

A friend.

What a funny thing to be.

“I had a dream last night,” you blurt out.

“Oh?”

You pull your legs up to your chest. They don’t look like your own. They don’t feel like your own. You don’t feel like your own.

“We had sex,” you continue. In the other room, you hear dishes clatter as she chokes on her own spit. The water keeps running. “I didn’t like it.”

“Oh,” is the response she settles on. “Um... Well, I’m... Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay.”

When you dream, you only dream of her. Sometimes she berates you. She hurts you. She kicks you. Beats you. She tells you it’s for being disobedient. For being worthless. Other times she praises you. She likes you. She holds you. She loves you. She says it’s for being good. For being better than everyone else. You don’t know which one you like more. You hope she doesn’t make you choose. You don’t want to choose. You want her to choose for you.

Last night, she didn’t choose. You didn’t choose, either. It happened. That was it. When you woke, you didn’t feel good. You felt sad. You cried. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

You didn’t like it, either.

You don’t like the idea of intimacy. Towards most people, yes, but most certainly towards her. There’s a fuzzy memory stashed away in the confines of your mind of her lips, so very close to yours. 

She kissed you. That much you know.

Why? Why did she? That part, you don’t.

You could ask. You don’t remember. She is kind. She explains the things you don’t remember, like Cindy. Cindy used to babysit you when you were young, up until you were twelve. She could explain this. You could also wait. Some of your memories have been coming back, or, rather, you’ve just remembered them. They never went anywhere. You don’t know how to describe it.

You want to know why. You also don’t.

There’s a deep-rooted repulsion that comes with it. With the dream. With her. You feel it when you talk. You feel it when you’re close. You feel it when she holds you. You feel it when she looks at you.

It’s not directed towards her. It’s directed towards you. You waste so much of her time by just existing, and then you dream of her. Even in sleep, you waste her time.

Disgusting. Wasteful.

It felt real. It felt so real, and that’s why you hate it. You hate yourself for thinking of it, too.

A nightmare, you reason, it was a nightmare.

(You don’t think you’re supposed to like nightmares, but white lies never hurt anyone.)

“Do you dream?” you ask. Your voice sounds scratchy. Faint. It sounds like the recording of a recording, with pops from the speakers caught on the other device. Distant. Distorted. It doesn’t sound like your own. You don’t which voice is yours. You don’t want a voice.

“Uh... Sometimes.” Her voice is pretty. She’s pretty. She sounds tired, though. Do you keep her up? She insists on caring for you. You don’t know why she does if she’s tired. Is this friendship? You don’t like how the word feels when you think it. You never say it. If you tried saying it, you’d choke. It feels like bile in your throat, rising. Consuming. Burning. Sickening. You don’t think you should have friends. You don’t think you’re enough of a person for friends. She insists on calling you her friend, though. She’s nice like that, you think. You don’t deserve her, you know.

“Did you dream last night?”

“Uhh...” You assume she did. Maybe not. Do people dream every night? “Yeah. I remember pieces of it.”

She goes on to explain what she remembers in detail - she got lost in MakoMart and ran into some celebrity when the apocalypse started.

“That sounds exciting,” you say once she finishes. Her dreams are dreams. They’re unrealistic. Fantastical. Your dreams are like that too, in a way. Absolutely unrealistic. A crazed fantasy. “Were you scared?”

“I woke up a little scared, yeah.” You can’t picture her scared. She is a person, yes, but she is more than that. She is an angel, trapped in a prison of flesh and blood. “I mean, once I figured out it was a dream, I thought it was funny. You should have seen it..!”

You nod slightly against your knee. She can’t see it. Good. You don’t like being seen. By others. By her. By you. In the mirror, you stare at yourself. From the other side, it stares back. You don’t look like yourself. You don’t feel like yourself. Your body doesn’t feel like yours. Then whose body would? Nothing comes to mind. If you could change your body to what you want, maybe you would be better. If you could fill your lungs with soil and let yourself rot, maybe you would be happy. You don’t know if you deserve it. You don’t know if you deserve happiness.

She starts talking again. Her voice sounds fuzzy. Distant. Underwater. The world feels fuzzy. Dizzy. Underwater.

You close your eyes and slump further against your knees.

Dreams are something you don’t deserve. You’d like to sleep a dreamless sleep.

Yes.

A break sounds nice.

* * *

She leaves eventually. She always does. You feel sad when she leaves. Each time, you know it’s coming. It never makes it hurt any less.

You feel bad for feeling sad. You shouldn’t feel sad. You’re being selfish. You shouldn’t be selfish. Good servants, or- Good  _ friends _ (the word feels like vomit on your tongue) shouldn’t be selfish. You value your needs too much. You should value hers more. Friendship is about equality, so you’ve heard. You take too much. She gives too much. You should give more. You don’t give more. You are selfish. Too selfish.

You lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling. Your cuts have been healing, if only slightly. They hurt less. She changes your bandages for you. You don’t know why. No. You do know why. She’s too nice. Too giving. She must be like that towards everyone, if she’s like that towards you. You should pay her back. How? How do you? She never tells you if she needs anything. When she’s here, she only asks about you. You and your problems. That’s it. She brings you food and you talk. You can tell she doesn’t like talking to you. She chooses her words too carefully. Her voice is soft, always soft. She doesn’t touch you beyond changing your bandages. Is she scared of hurting you? Does she think you’re too fragile? You want to hurt. You want to ache. You want to bleed. You want her to hurt you. There you go again. Being selfish. Being greedy.

There’s no way for you to pay her back in the end. No favour you do for her will be enough. The only way to truly pay her back is to leave her life forever.

You look away from the ceiling and over at the window.

(One well-timed jump is all it would take.)

* * *

_ She pulls her fingers out. Sticky strands of saliva connect them to your mouth, pooling on your bottom lip. It’s tinted blue with a sickly sheen - your blood, you realize belatedly. _

_ You lick your lips. They taste metallic, rough against your tongue. Still, you don’t speak. You wait. You watch. Your stomach hurts. The stitches have been pulled apart. You’re bleeding. You don’t whine. You don’t complain. Even as it spills down to the floor, you say nothing. Your blood is warm against your skin. The rest of you is cold. Feverishly cold. _

_ Her fingers trail down to the gash again. They trace the edge of it (it hurts, it hurts, you want more) before pushing in. It burns. It aches. Her nails scrape at your flesh. They feel like tiny knives. You love it. You hate that you love it. _

_ How disgusting. _

_ She pulls her fingers out. Your breathing is ragged. Rapid. Fast. _

_ When she looks down at you, there is nothing but disgust in her eyes. _

_ “Gross,” she mutters. _

_ ‘Gross.’ You agree. You’re disgusting. You’re trash. You’re worthless. _

_ You open your mouth to apologize and _

you open your eyes.

Dreaming.

You had another dream.

You sit up. The sheets ruffle around you. You are not bleeding. The sheets are dry.

You pull your knees up to your chest.

Disgusting.

You’re disgusting.

* * *

She takes you to the Cuttlefish Cabin again. You still don’t like the Cabin. You still think she doesn’t either.

Callie and Marie are never there. They’re always busy. You don’t know why you have to come if they don’t. Maybe it’s something to do with getting out of the house. Maybe it’s supposed to be good for you. It doesn’t feel like it’s good for you, but what do you know?

It’s just you and her and it.

You are worse than people. Than everyone. You are garbage, walking among them.

She is better than all. She is your angel. She is kind, giving. Loving.

It is worse than you. It is the trash of trash. It wastes oxygen by existing. It is something you should eliminate.

He asked you to eliminate it. He commanded you.

He is gone. He is dead. You do not serve him any longer.

But it is here. It is alive. It shouldn’t be.

You don’t hate it. Not exactly. But you recognize its status. Worthless. Puny. Miserable.

She hates it. You don’t know why. She says it hurt you. That it’s the reason you’re like this now. You don’t know what she means by ‘now.’ You’ve always been like this, haven’t you? When you asked, she grew mad. You don’t ask her stupid questions anymore.

It doesn’t talk to you when she’s around. It knows she hates it. Good. It’s self aware. When you are alone, though, you talk.

“Hi,” it mumbles one day, shifting where it stands. “Um... You are Agent 3, right?”

You nod. Its accent is thick.

“Um... I’m Agent 8.” You nod again. It’s information you already know. Still, you are polite. So what if it’s beneath you? So what if the world wouldn’t miss it if you tore its entrails out and hung it by its neck? “But, um... If you want, you can call me Eight?”

It holds its hand out for a handshake. Gingerly, you take it. You shake it. Later on, you’ll have to wash it. You can’t live with touching trash beneath yourself.

Silence settles over you. You can tell it’s awkward for it. You don’t care. You’re better than it. Finally, you’re better than something. You could kill it if you wanted. The world wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t care. She wants it dead, you know. To make her happy, to truly pay her back, you could kill it.

An extermination, you think.

“I am, um... Sorry,” it apologizes. It drags its foot against the floor. It’s nervous, to be in your presence. Yes. Good. The worthless should be. You would know. “For... For everything.”

“It’s okay,” you reply. You don’t know if it truly is okay. She will be the judge of that. As it stands, though, you have no qualms with it being here.

It blinks. Is it shocked? Stupid.

“She, um... Four-”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt. You don’t care what it thinks. You don’t care what it says. You don’t care about it. “Stop talking.”

It blushes. Its ink is purple. 

Disgusting. 

You hate purple.

“Sorry,” it mumbles once more. It hesitates for a moment before turning to leave. You grab its wrist, hold it tight.

“Don’t leave.”

You don’t know why you want it to stay. Maybe it’s that fleeting feeling that you’re finally,  _ finally _ better than something. Maybe it’s because you don’t want it to bother her anymore.

You don’t know.

Regardless, it stays.

Good.

Obedience is such a wonderful trait.

* * *

“You were talking to Eight?” she asks. You nod. “How... Was it?”

“... Okay,” is the reply you settle on. “She’s not that bad.”

“Really?” she breathes, a whisper beneath her breath. She shakes her head and smiles at you. “That’s... That’s good. It’s good that you’re making friends.”

You have to try not to laugh.

‘Friends.’

What a funny concept.


	3. in which ???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapters italics: a sex scene. if you want to skip it only the explicit portion, press ctrl+f and type 'dreaming.'  
> i dont think theres anything in this chapter that needs its own warning beyond that. theyre all there in the tags for the most part

_In her arms, she holds you._

_Right now, you feel loved. Truly and honestly loved. Loved, as if you are something deserving it. Loved, as if you are someone deserving it. Deserving her._

_Her touch is light and warm, soft and gentle as her hand trails down your stomach and onto your thighs and between your thighs. It's blazing, molten, yet so, so gentle. It's hers. You're hers. You love her so, so much._

_You gasp when she touches you. You moan when she enters you. Her other hand rests on your thigh and keeps you close. In her grasp, it quivers._

_Your face is hot, mouth parted. It contorts. You're smiling._

_Happy. You feel happy._

_You didn't think you were capable of such a thing._

_When you smile, do you look wretched? Are you as awful as you think?_

_But then you feel her lips press a kiss to your neck and your breath catches in your throat. Her fingers curl within you._

_"I love you," she murmurs, voice low. Your hips shakily rock into her hand. "Hey, is this good?"_

_"Yes," you choke out. It's good. It's amazing. It's her. She loves you. She loves you. You're so happy you could die. Maybe you are dead. Maybe you've found heaven. Heaven is her. Heaven is holding you. Fucking you. You're so happy. You love her. You love her._

_She laughs. It's low and rumbling and teasing and it quakes throughout your body. You don't know what she normally laughs like. You don't know if you've ever heard her laugh before. You hope you can hear it again. You love her. You love her. You love her._

_She's hard. You can feel her pressing against your skin. She likes you, you realize. She loves you. She loves you, and that's what matters._

_Yes._

_The sharp edge of her beak grazes your skin and you shudder. Her tongue drags against your neck, slow and burning, and you gasp out her name._

_Hers._

_You're hers._

_“You’re so pretty, baby,” she breathes, voice tickling your ear. “Fucking beautiful.”_

_Her words only serve to make you hotter. You’re pretty. Beautiful. She said you were, so it’s true. You feel free. For once, you feel free. She loves you. She loves you._

_From your mouth tumbles filthy curses and mindless approval, a sickening mantra of “Yes, yes, yes,” and she doesn’t slow down and doesn’t stop when your hips start stuttering and fuck messily into her hand._

_“I love you,” she repeats and curls her fingers just so and that does it, that does it, and with a loud cry, you come. You’re a mess, such a mess, but she loves you, she loves you, and that’s what matters, she loves you, fuck, she loves you, and as you come down from your high you open your eyes and_

Dreaming.

You were dreaming.

Of course you were. There’s no reason for it to not have been.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There’s no reason for someone like her to love you.

The realization hits you suddenly like a body splattering onto asphalt.

There isn’t any reason for someone like her to love something like you.

That feeling churns in your stomach, dread eating you from the inside out. The room spins around you. The red light of your clock is unreadable. You don’t stop to check. The blinds are shut and no light leaks through. Your room is dark. Empty. A void, an abyss, floating aimlessly with you inside it.

She doesn’t love you - you scramble out of the sheets and they toy with you before finally letting you go.

She doesn’t have to love you - the floor is a messy wasteland of clothes and tissues and bandages and you stumble through it all blindly.

You were stupid for thinking she might have - your hand shakes and crashes into the door and your nails scratch against it as you find the doorknob.

You were stupid for dreaming of it - the knob turns and you force the door open and it crashes into the wall with a loud thud.

She doesn’t love you and she never will - your steps are frantic and crazed and the world, nonexistent, twirls around you and you feel sick, nauseous, _disgusting._

You were made to serve - turning the corner, you fumble with the bathroom door and stagger in.

You were made to please - your hand slams against the light switch and the room is lit up with an off-golden glow.

You were made to love her - you tear your clothes off as fast as you can but some stay on and it’s taking too long and you can’t scramble out of them and it’s enough, it’s enough, it’s good enough.

Your love is unconditional - your shirt is still on when you turn on the shower and you make the water as hot as it can be.

She will never love you as much as you love her - you enter the shower and sit on the floor, scalding water beating against your skin.

No one will ever love you as much as you love them - you stay there and stare at the basin far after the water runs cold.

No one will ever love you - that is a fact of life.

* * *

She stops by later. It’s Monday, so of course she does.

She knocks at the door and pauses when you don’t open it immediately. The passing toll chimes. She knocks again. You force yourself to stand and your shirt drips water onto the ground. Another knock. The knell rings. You find a pair of shorts and slip them on. They’re inside out. It doesn’t matter.

She knocks again. Funeral toll.

You open the door.

She is pretty. Perfect. She greets you with a smile that fades once she sees you.

You are wretched. Flawed. You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. You look up at her and your gaze is dead. Water drips down your face. You don’t wipe it on anything. You can’t. Do you look pathetic, right now? Do you look worthless, right now? Does she worry for you, right now?

Wordlessly, you step aside. Your shirt sticks to your frame, lanky and thin and spindly. Your shorts are wet now, from water this time. You’re cold. The water was cold. Water drips from your body onto the wooden floor. You hope she doesn’t slip. That would be embarrassing. If you slipped, though, that could be okay. If you hit it hard enough, you would die. If you died, she wouldn’t have to deal with worthless wastes of oxygen like you. If she didn’t have to deal with you, she would be happy.

You want her to be happy.

Distantly, you recall happiness. It feels like so long ago. You want her to feel that. You want her to feel happy.

Loved.

Loved, but not by you.

Loved, but by your ghost.

Loved, but by your corpse. 

By the smeared mess left on the asphalt.

“Summer?” she speaks. Her voice shakes, her eyes wide. “Summer, are you... Okay? You’re all wet.”

You stare back. The void your apartment floated in now fills your chest, crushing and suffocating, hollowly writhing in your chest.

“Yes,” you reply after a pause. “I’m okay.”

“You should change out of that, at least.” She takes a few steps forward, shutting the door behind her. Her hand touches your shoulder and you remember last night _\- “I love you.”_ \- and you swat her hand away and flinch away.

“Don’t,” you mumble, voice small and trembling. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m... I’m sorry,” she says quietly, mantle a swirling mix of beige and lavender.

She shouldn’t be sorry. You should be.

It’s your fault, after all.

If only you weren’t so unlovable.

* * *

The next day is Tuesday. She doesn’t visit on Tuesdays.

Good.

You don’t want to be seen by her.

You remember it each time you close your eyes. You remember her touch, so warm and soft and caring, and you feel sick. You feel revolted. You don’t deserve that kind of thing.

_Love._

That’s what it was. That’s what it had to be. Love.

The word makes you sick.

You don’t get love. You don’t deserve love.

A good servant - a good _“friend”_ \- doesn’t act selfish. You are being selfish. So selfish. You dream of her. You dream of her loving you. Fucking you.

That aching void in your hearts suddenly courses through you. It shoots from your chest and down into your palms until it fades and fizzles away.

If you had a hobby, would you dream of things beyond her? If you had a hobby, would you bother her less? If you had a hobby, would she be happier?

That’s what it boils down to.

Her.

You wonder if you were once your own person. If you were someone else, with interests and friends and opinions. Someone with a name.

Ah, but you have a name. It doesn’t feel like your own. You try not to think of it. You don’t think you’re that kind of person. The kind of person with a name. The kind of person that’s a person.

You are shaped like a person. You breathe like one. You should be one.

But you are not.

You are a shambling shell filled with nothing, a shell that’s wasting away and rotting alive. You’re a waste of space. A waste of time. A waste, through-and-through.

So you are not “Summer.” So you are not “Agent 3.” So you are not anyone. 

So you are just you.

* * *

She takes you to the Cabin again. She doesn’t touch you. She barely looks at you. 

Good. You aren’t wasting her time. 

Bad. You are nothing without her.

Bad. You are selfish.

You see it again. Eight, it wants you to call it. Eight, with the crooked nose from where it was punched. You wonder if you punched the other side if it would correct itself. You wonder if it could breathe. You wonder if it would bleed. You wonder how much. You wonder if it’d like it, if it was some sick fuck like you. You wonder, you wonder, you wonder.

Wondering gets you nowhere, though, so you stop.

“Hello, Three,” it greets. Its voice is soft. Gentle. “How are you today?”

You adjust a little where you sit. The couch is hard. It doesn’t matter.

“Okay,” you mumble in response. Okay is never a lie. Okay is always right in some way. “You?”

“I have been, um... A little more okay.” Purple dusts its cheeks as it talks. “I have been practicing Inkling some more.”

You nod absently, resting your head against the couch cushions with your knees tucked up towards your chest.

“You’re improving,” you state. It isn’t a compliment. It is fact.

“Thank you,” it says in return, and you know it’s too stupid to discern what is and isn’t praise. “How are the things with Four?”

“Okay,” you repeat. Terrible. They’re terrible. Somewhere in the world, terrible is okay. It’s not a lie. You aren’t lying. “How are things with Off the Hook?”

It blinks. “Ah... It is, ‘are things’ and not ‘are the things?’” You nod, annoyance burning through you like acid. “I understand... Thank you.” Again, you nod. You wish it’d just answer the question. “They are, um... They are doing good. Marina is teaching me the Inkling. It is a lot harder than I thought.”

“You think Octarian is easier?” You’ve heard bits and pieces of it before. You think the language is rough. You don’t know if you like the way it sounds.

“Yes, I do think Octarian is easier. It was the first language I learned,” it replies. “Um... Do you mind if I teaching you some?”

“If I teach,” you correct. Its face flushes dark purple. The hue is close to blue. You wonder what it’d look like if you strangled it. It’s a thought you like too much. “Do it if you want. I don’t care.”

Secretly, some part of you hope it does. Secretly, some part of you is lonely. Secretly, some part of you just wants to talk to someone, something, anything, before the void swirling inside you eats you whole.

“Yes,” it says. It makes its choice. You wish you were decisive. “Do you knew any Octarian?”

You shake your head.

“I will teaching you the best I can,” it announces. “There are the greetings. Um, I think it is like the ‘hello.’” You nod, but you listen. “Repeating it after me?” When you nod again, it clears its throat. {Alkev.}

{Alkev,} you parrot, and it pauses and thinks and then shrugs, deeming your pronunciation good enough.

It teaches you more phrases, more words, all small and common and easily said.

When she comes to take you back to your apartment, she asks how it went. She says you look happy.

You don’t think you do, but you are smiling. You don’t know what the feeling in your chest is, but it is warm. It’s the different warmth you get from her, but it’s something. Something that scares you.

A part of you fears it. A part of you fears growing closer.

You think that maybe Eight has become something of an equal in your eyes.

Right now, she is your only equal.

You hope it stays that way.


	4. In which you are her

“Have you been feeling any better recently?”

You pause, and blink, and introspect. You don’t know if you have. You don’t know what you feel. If you feel. Objects don’t feel, after all. Sometimes, you feel. You’re broken in that regard. You don’t like that.

“Mh,” you hum with a small shrug. You hope it’s enough of a response. If it’s something. “I think so.”

You think. You never know. That’s how the world works for you.

“That’s good,” come her reply. It’s good. Objectively so, it’s good. You don’t know why she cares, truth be told. You don’t think you ever will. “You, um... You’re friends with Eight, right?”

Friends.

“Friends,” you repeat. The word feels acidic, still. It feels burning. Eating. Consuming. You don’t like it. “Friends, like us?”

She pauses then. She pauses for a long while, a pause too pregnant. Her nail clicks against her mug, _tap-tap-tapping_ like a metronome keeping rhythm.

“No,” she settles on. “Well. Sort of. I’m not sure.” Lazily, you blink. She stops tapping when she talks. When she pauses, she doesn’t tap. “Do you think we are?”

You swallow hard. You don’t know.

She looks at you expectantly. Her eyes are orange and lively like the flickering flame. You wish you had eyes like hers. You wish you were just like her. You wish you could crawl into her skin and become her.

She holds the mug with her left hand. The mug is white. It’s off-colored. Her skin is tanned and smooth. You wonder if her hands are soft. You remember your dream from three days ago. You remember her touching you two days ago. It’s been two days since someone else touched you. You don’t remember what her hand felt like.

“Well?”

“Um.” You’re not sure. You don’t know if you’re friends. If she is your friend. She wants you to call her your friend. “You... You say we are.”

She rolls her eyes, sighing. “Just be honest with me here, Summer.”

“I, um...” Your fingers curl. Your nails dig into your thighs, into the fabric of your shorts. They relax. You repeat the motion a few times and you lick your lips in thought. Your lips are dry. Cracked. Spots of blue mar them where you’ve bit them raw. If you smiled, truly smiled, they’d bleed. You don’t smile. You grimace at best. “I...”

She takes another sip of her tea. A small mark of lipstick marks the place she drank from. It’s the same color as her ink. You read an article talking about recent advancements in the makeup industry. Companies have been making new makeup similar to clothes with inkfibers in them. They’re expensive, though. Does she have enough money for these kinds of things? She must, if she has them.

“Forget it,” she mutters. Her voice is snappish. Angry. She’s done being nice to you. “Sorry I even asked.”

You have an answer, though, one lodged in the back of your throat. You don’t think she’d like it. You know she doesn’t like you.

“Okay,” you say instead.

It’s not the kind of thing you can forget, but you can pretend if she wants you to.

* * *

It’s raining.

The skies are grey. Sickly. Pale. Corpselike and drained of blood.

You normally keep the blinds closed. You don’t like the light.

Today, you open them. You don’t know why.

The rain is static. Natural static.

You are filled with static. Your head is filled with static. Your eye, your blue eye, is filled with it too.

You hate static.

The window in your bedroom is dirty. The glass is discolored. The windowsill is coated with a thick layer of dust. You should clean it. You should clean your room. You don’t.

Sometimes you worry what you’ll find beneath the mess. Beneath the carpet of clutter atop the beige carpet beneath it. Tissues and bandages and dirty clothes. You keep the rest of your apartment clean. You clean it daily because you’re running out of things to do. But your room, you don’t clean. It’s too messy. It’s too cluttered. It’s constricting.

You need contrast. You need balance. If the rest of your apartment is perfect, you need one room that’s the worst.

And you fear what you’ll discover if you clean.

You wonder what bugs you’ll find. You don’t eat in your room, but there are things for them to eat. Your blood, dried and seeped into bandages. Skin cells, probably. You read somewhere that the average inkling sheds thirty-thousand skin cells per second.

You haven’t found any bugs. Maybe you have. Maybe you aren’t looking. Aren’t watching. You’re inattentive like that. They’ll be there if you look, you reason. They have to be.

You wonder if you’ll find her body. Your body. It’s not yours. You don’t have a body, but you’re kept in one. No body suits you. You think you have become someone else. That you’re your own doppelganger. You wonder is Summer is still alive. If her body is here, stuffed beneath your bed where the bugs fester and breed.

Lazily, you nudge a heap of clothes aside with your foot.

It’s best to not worry about things of that sort.

* * *

Jarrett calls you the next day. He asks when you think you’re ready to start work again. You blink and turn to ask her for her opinion, but she isn’t there. Instead, the dead girl beneath your bed speaks: “Whenever. I feel okay.”

He clicks his tongue and you picture him nodding a bit to himself, jotting down hasty notes on post-it notes strewn throughout the kitchen.

“Okay,” he replies. “Are there any days that don’t work for you?”

You don’t know.

“No,” the corpse says. You wonder if she looks like you. If you look like her. If she’s the rude girl grinning in photographs with so many piercings. You wonder what she looks like now. Did you take her eye? You think you did. The crimson one is hers. You took it. Your body is hers. You took it. You’re your eye, blue and foreign and off. You picture her rotting beneath your bed with a scooped-out eye, the socket filled with maggots, writhing and ravenous. “I’m free all summer.”

“Okay.” He pauses again as he writes. You wonder if he taps his mug when he drinks from it. “I have you scheduled for 2:00 PM tomorrow, okay?”

The corpse nods with a soft hum. “Got it. Thanks.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies dismissively. “Okay, well... Take care. That’s all.”

Summer mumbles a goodbye and hangs up.

You stare down at the phone in your hand. In her hand.

You are two people. 

No.

You are an amalgam. 

Half person, half thing.

* * *

You make another convenience store run. Four cups of instant noodles. A candybar. A pack of cigarettes, this time with a lighter to go with.

It's late. 11:00 PM or later. You left your phone at home. You aren't scared of anything that could happen to you. If you die, you'll come back.

It's a sad fact of life.

There's a girl walking on the sidewalk in front of you. The only thing to light the way are the flickering orange glow of the streetlights. She's an inkling. You didn't catch a glimpse of her face.

A car drives by. The window rolls down.

"How much for a ride, doll?" comes a voice, raucous and slurred. He's drunk. There are other men in the car. You assume they're all the same.

You watch her arms move and she hugs herself, walking faster.

"Fucking slut," he calls after her.

How absolutely vile.

* * *

You go into work the next day. You arrive on time. You don’t want people to see you as what you truly are, so you change your ink to pink and put your tentacles up in a bun. You’re wearing makeup, too. Just a little. Just enough to hide the dark circles around your eyes. Nothing fancy. You don’t do fancy.

Jarrett’s son has the same shift as you. His name is Justin. He turned fifteen in April. He’s short. You think he has Pygmy heritage. Maybe he just hasn’t hit puberty yet. His tentacles are messy and curled. No, misshapen. His ink is green. His eyes are purple. He’s got a lot of freckles. He likes to play card games with his friends after school and during lunch. Once, he had a crush on you. Maybe he still does. You don’t know. You don’t care.

“Summer?” he breathes in a short little gasp when he sees you sitting on the curb behind the cafe. It’s fifteen minutes to your shift. The ground is damp from rain. “You’re back.”

You look up from the cigarette held between your fingers and nod. “Hi,” you mumble. “How are you?”

He starts babbling immediately. It’s so easy to tune the unimportant out.

Justin was worried, though, so it seems. You heard Jarrett got an email from the Atramentonian government saying you were gone for a bit due to “medical reasons,” which wasn’t entirely a lie. The Kamabo exploration took roughly two weeks. You’ve spent the past three recovering. Recovering, or trying to. Five weeks, you’ve been gone. Five weeks, and you could have been fired after four. Jarrett is nice. Too nice.

The cigarette is held between your lips now. You pull the lighter out from your back pocket and light it, taking a long drag. You’ve never smoked before. It’s hot. Foul. Putrid. You feel good. Something like good. Calm. Still, you don’t want to finish it.

You pull it away and hold it out to Justin without a second thought.

“Do you want this rest of this?” you ask, smoke curling out your nose and pouring from your lips. It obscures your vision slightly, like you’re looking through the fog.

Justin stops mid-sentence, eyes wide. His mouth opens and closes like that of a brain-dead fish.

You take it as a no. It was a stupid thing to ask.

You stand up, close the box of cigarettes and slip it back in your pocket with the lighter. You stare down at the cigarette in your hand, at the glowing orange tip, and take one last drag. Then you drop it and crush it beneath your feet.

Awful. 

You feel awful.

* * *

Your mother calls again. You watch your phone on your nightstand buzz, but you don’t pick up.

* * *

Justin buzzes about the store nervously. Normally he tries to act "cool," or something like it. It never works. He doesn't bother today.

Jarrett puts you two together on shifts a lot. The store really only has six employees, counting you and not Jarrett. You don't like the others that much. You think you prefer Justin's company, but you think it's similar to picking the least deadly poison to drink.

"So, uh, Summer," he starts, wiping off a mug. You think of her fingers, manicured and long and pretty. You think of her nails, painted green to match her ink. _Tap tap tap,_ but the sound is just a memory. "You, uh. You've been gone for a bit."

Absently, you nod. The tray of scones is still warm to the touch. The scones are warm, too, and you slide them into the display. 250 C per scone. There are twelve scones on the tray. 3000 C total.

"They said it was for, uh... Medical reasons, right?" Beneath your breath, you hum. The scones smell sweet. The store smells sweet. You don't think you do. You think you smell of cigarettes. You think you smell sour. Bitter. Before your shift, you smoke. You don't know why. It's just habit now. "If you, um... Don't mind me asking, what happened? It's been over a month."

You lick your lips. They're dry. Cracked. They aren't bloody, but they're raw. You can taste it. Your flesh, raw and blue.

"I fell," you state.

"You fell?" He blinks and then looks away. "Must've been a pretty bad fall."

You nod again.

"Hopefully you feel better," he says. "I missed you."

You have to bite back a laugh.

"Okay," you reply, feeling your lips curl up in a wretched grin.

He blinks at you.

His eyes are purple.

Oh, how you hate purple.

* * *

You are underground. In the Metro, walking the empty tunnels.

They lead to an arena. An arena, or something like one. An open area, encased in glass.

The elevator, taking you up.

You look over the side. At the bottom is a sickly purple goop, bubbling and burbling. Acidic.

There are speakers here. Speakers blaring static, filling your brain like a soupy fog. It's loud. Too loud.

She is here. The girl. The dead one. Summer. Her body leans against one of the corners, slumped forward.

She is missing her eyes. In their absence, maggots.

His voice, echoing from her rotting lips: "Fucking slut."

"Me?" you ask, pointing at yourself.

Again, she speaks. "Fucking slut." The maggots writhe angrily. The elevator descends. "You're awful."

"What do you know?" you snap. Your voice wavers. What does she know? Nothing. She knows nothing. "You don't know me."

"I am you," she hisses. "You are me."

Further and further the elevator falls. As it falls, she rots more. Decays.

"We've never been the same," you yell. You have to, just to be heard. The static is loud, growing louder. "You're not me."

"Open your eyes," she calls. Her voice distorts and warps, blending in with the static. "We are one."

The elevator falls. The acid consumes you and eats you whole.

You wake up screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to update on sunday, but i'm impatient  
> thanks for all the kudos and comments so far, they mean a lot to me <3


	5. In which your eyes

_“... You can expect rains for the rest of the week, but let’s hope it doesn’t interfere with the upcoming Splatfest...”_ The weatherman’s voice blends in with the drumming tones of the rain. Your TV is rather shoddy, the images discolored and the voices warped. You don’t watch TV much anyways, so it’s not like it matters, though. You should cancel your plan, you think, because you never use it. Yet you don’t, for one reason or another, and so the weatherman continues, voice filling the room with staticky words of days to come. _“... Remember to stay dry, Inkopolis, and, if you haven’t, be sure to pick a side at the Splatfest Terminal in the Square..!”_

You don’t care much for Splatfests, anymore. Maybe you did once, or, maybe _she_ did once. If you were to participate, you would choose whatever team she did. You wonder if the corpse beneath your bed, the one that watches you in the mirror with empty eyes of glass, had an opinion once. You wonder how much she cared. If she got riled up like everyone else, proudly promoting their team in the upcoming weeks.

Supposedly, choosing the team that you don’t truly align with brings you bad luck. It’s supposed to be a competition for the gods. Something like that. Religion was never your strong suit, though. It’s hard to have faith, these days.

But every day is like this. Every day is so monotonous. So boring, so dull. You’re a cog in a machine, doing the same things on repeat.

You think of the octolings that fought beak and claw to escape. To reach a better life, to find happiness in Inkopolis. You wonder if they found what they sought. If they ever will.

Life here is better than it would be anywhere else. You should be grateful, to lead a life so privileged. But is it a life, if you wish you were dead? But is it a life, if you don’t feel alive?

You blink slowly, leaning back against the couch cushions.

You spend too much time thinking. A hobby would really do you good.

* * *

She visits again, late on a Saturday night. She seems tired tonight. More tired than she usually does. But she’s here again, for whatever reason. You don’t need her to take care of you. You’re self-sufficient, to some degree. You work a job paying just above minimum wage, enough to pay the bills. You shower enough, enough that you don’t reek of blood, and sweat, and shit. Your cuts have healed, or healed enough, and they’ve scarred into winding blue marks that will never fade. 

But, you want her here, for whatever reason.

You like her. You love her. At least, you think you do. These days, you’re not very sure. Is it love, if it’s unreturned? Is it love, if you’re blindly following?

The dim light of the lamp casts a golden glow on her skin. Your angel, trapped in a prison of flesh and blood.

“Dana asked about you,” she mumbles quietly, breaking the silence. She turns the page of the book she’s reading, and you watch her fingers as she does. “Wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Really?” you ask, and her thumb glides down the side of the page. “That’s odd.”

She swallows her spit and shifts in her seat. “Not really. She knows I’ve been busy with you lately, so...”

“Mm.” You blink, and your eyes sting when you do. They’re bloodshot. You’re tired too. “What’d you tell her?”

“That you were doing better,” she responds. “Dana laughed and asked if our schedule would be normal again.”

“Ah.” She turns the page again, and you lick your beak. It tastes like coffee, from the morning, and blood, from when you bit your lip raw. “Sorry, then.”

“Geez, don’t apologize,” she chides. “I chose to come here. You know that. Anyways, Dana can suck it. You’re my best friend.”

“... Thanks,” you mumble. “I’d prefer to refer to us as more of, uh... More of acquaintances. With benefits.”

She looks up from her book and meets your gaze with a shocked expression. “We’re what?”

“Friends is too mushy and feeling-y,” you hastily explain, feeling your face warm. “So...”

For a few moments, she keeps watching you, before her lip curls up and she laughs, airy and musical. “God, that sounds like we’re fucking. I hate it.”

 _I love you,_ she whispered in a dream, and you feel your stomach curl.

“Too bad,” you say quietly instead. “That’s what we are.”

“I’m... Happy you’re feeling better, at the very least,” she says. “It’s been so long since I heard you joke around.”

 _I wasn’t joking,_ you insist. _We’re not friends. We’ll never be friends. I’m beneath you, and this is the only way I can word it._

“Mhm,” you agree instead. “I’ve... Been getting better, yeah. Thanks to you, mostly.”

Each lie you tell feels like another nail being hammered into your skin, but you force a smile.

She smiles back and laughs.

“It’s nothing, Summer. Don’t worry about it.” She folds the page corner to bookmark it and closes it. “You’re the best acquaintance I could’ve asked for, too.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out and stand abruptly. 

She looks confused, but nods. “... Okay. Be careful..?”

You don’t respond, and you hurry out of the room. The bathroom light makes your skin look golden as you stare into your reflection’s eyes.

Her _best_ acquaintance.

Fuck.

You feel like you’re going to puke.

* * *

“Do you turf a lot, Three?” Eight asks, leaning forward. You smell the mint on her breath. Her eyes are wide. Attentive. She has pretty eyes, you think. They’re bright. Pink. Her scleras are green, like a freshly-cut lime. Her eyes aren’t like yours. Yours are mismatched and empty, dull and made of plastic. “I’d like to turfing with you sometime, either way. I like spending the time with you.”

Her words bring forth a fluttering warmth in your chest, dancing about your hearts as your face heats up. You don’t like how it feels. It’s dizzy, euphorically so. You don’t deserve those feelings. You don’t deserve Eight. You want to push her away. You want more distance between you. You want her out of your life and gone forever.

“I don’t turf much,” you mumble, looking away. “My cuts, remember?”

“Oh.” Looking down, you stare at her hands. At her fingers. They’re long and thin and marked with scars. The shell around her fingertips is more pigmented than yours, although you’re sure hers is thicker. She works out, or exercises, or something. You don’t. You sit there and stare with blind eyes at nothing as the static eats you from the inside out. “Well, um... When you feeling a little better, would you like to turfing with me?”

You nod and shift where you sit, shins clumsily sliding against each other. “Sure,” you agree, a pre-damaged promise. “If you’d like.”

“Aaah, is it, um... To going turf with me?” she mumbles as if she didn’t hear you in the first place. It’s annoying, you think, to speak and not be acknowledged. That seems to be the only thing that happens to you, these days. You’re ignored. Constantly ignored. You know you’re not worth their time, yet you’re so much more important than they’ll ever be. You don’t quite understand how you’re both things at once, yet you are. You are your room, too dark and too bright all at once.

“To go turf with me,” you correct, looking up from her hands. 

She blinks at you, wide-eyed. “Err... But the action has not happening yet,” she states, cocking her head to the side.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “You’d still say ‘to go turf,’” you explain. “But... Yes, I’d like to go with you sometime.”

With a small hum, Eight nods. “Thank you.” Your eyes trail down her face, following the curve of her neck and the shape of her arms before trailing back up again. You can’t keep your eyes still today. You don’t know why. It’s not as if you’ve grown sick of Eight, or grown sick of looking at her, it’s... Something. Something you can’t place, running in your chest. You don’t like it. “What weapons do you like to... To use?”

You chew at your lip in thought. You don’t have a favourite. You don’t care, truthfully. 

“Rollers,” you settle on eventually. You remember the weight in your hands and you think it was comfortable. “I like rollers, I guess.”

“Oh,” Eight says, as if she made a mistake. “That, um... That must be difficult for you now, huh?”

You blink once, because you don’t understand what she’s trying to say. “I don’t understand.”

“Ah,” she mumbles, and her face flushes indigo. “I was, um... Tried to make a joke. Your arms, they, um... They were hurt in the blender fall.” You watch her and don’t say anything, and she looks away from you and coughs into her hand. “I am, um... Sorry. That was taste poor.”

“Poor taste,” you correct, “And it’s fine. I just didn’t understand the joke, that’s all.”

“Still,” she insists, “I feel bad. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.”

For a second, Eight looks shocked, or maybe mad, and you have to fight the smile from your face as a chill races down your spine.

 _I want you,_ the corpse murmurs, and Eight doesn’t respond.

“So, um. When... If we go turfing, when would you like to go?” Eight asks. “I’m not doing much, most days. I am not very busy.”

“I have work,” you state, and her face falls. “On my days off, we can go.”

“We can?” Eight says with a gasp as her face lights up.

“Mm,” you hum, and nod absently. “I’ll text you sometime. Whenever I’m free.”

“Text,” Eight parrots, and her lip twitches a little. “Okay,” she says, as if agreeing, and nods more enthusiastically than you. “Thank you, Three!”

You want to tell her it’s nothing, but the words are stuck in your throat, so you close your eyes and lean further into the couch instead. Eight doesn’t press for an answer, and you think of her face. Her nose is crooked, and her eyes are too big for her face, shaped like almonds. Her face is round, and her skin looks soft. Eight must take care of herself, you reason, and your mind drifts to the corpse who stares at you in the mirror, the one that’s rotting alive.

 _Eight. I want Eight,_ it repeats, and you don’t say anything to it, either. 

With your eyes still closed, you focus on Eight’s breathing and you think of the heat of her body, and just how warm it’d be against yours. Just a moment of intimacy is all you want.

You open your eyes and meet Eight’s gaze, dark pink swirling around the ends of your tentacles.

Depraved, aren’t you?


End file.
